


If Wishes Were Horses...

by Wolfsbride



Series: Doomsday [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:06:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/pseuds/Wolfsbride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doomsday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Wishes Were Horses...

**Author's Note:**

> I am _so_ sorry! I think Skyfall has given me an angst disease of some kind.

When Bond comes to collect M at half past six, he is very solemn. He helps her into her coat, holds the door for her, and does all the little things he normally did, but with such an air of gloom she couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong. When they arrive at her flat and he presses a glass of Scotch into her hand before wandering off muttering about seeing to dinner, she really begins to worry.

Dinner is delicious and she eats well, mostly because Bond is watching her, hawk like, and it seems a shame to waste both good food and a good man willing to cook for her. Finally though, she’s had enough. 

She pushes her plate aside and sits back, eyeing him. “Alright, James. You’d better tell me what’s up.”

Bond puts his hand into the inside of his suit and withdraws a sheaf of paper. Placing them on the table, he passes them to her with a small shove. He refuses to meet her eyes.

“These were supposed to come across your desk tomorrow. You’ll be expected to sign off on them without complaint. Formality only, you understand.” Bond’s voice is rough with emotion.

M starts to read and then inhales sharply. She flips to the last sheet and her breath rushes out of her. The Prime Minister’s signature is a bold slash across the page. 

“How?” She’s trying to think. They’d been so bloody careful.

“Saudi Arabia.” 

“Fuck.” Of course. That god forsaken mission. The damn thing had been doomed from the start. Half-baked intel, equipment not working properly, contacts mysteriously disappearing. But she’d been under pressure to produce a miracle and so, against her better judgement, she’d sent James into the mouth of the beast. And very nearly lost him.

He’d been M.I.A. for three months and she’d been desperate to find him. But it would have been career suicide to have continued to visibly look after that length of time. So she’d followed protocol and then very quietly gone about using her own resources. When she’d finally got him back, filthy and beaten and almost broken but with miracle in hand, she’d let her guard down for one stupid minute. 

She’d hugged him and touched his face like she couldn’t believe he was real. This was somewhat the truth since she’d forced her rational mind to believe that he was dead no matter what her subconscious thought. Clearly someone who shouldn’t have, had seen and now James was paying the price.

M runs a shaking hand over her face. She suddenly feels the weight of her years. “I’m _so_ sorry, James.”

He’s there at her feet before she has time to say anymore. He takes her hands in his and kisses them. When he looks up at her his eyes are wet, lashes spiked with tears. “Don’t. _Don’t_. You have nothing to be sorry for. I don’t regret a moment and I never will. _Never_!” He says vehemently. 

She frees one hand and touches his face gently. The bruises are long since gone and all that remains is his rough kind of beauty. She sighs heavily. “I wish…” 

“If wishes were horses.” He mutters against her palm.

“Yes.”


End file.
